‘Are you looking for someone?’ a man’s voice called out. It was the kind of voice that got my attention right away, with its deep, melodious sound. I found the source of it was standing on the front porch of the house I’d thought might be Caleb’s.

  ‘No,’ I said quickly, uncomfortable that I’d been observed.

  ‘So then what is it? Are you here because of what happened next door, or are you interested because of the history of the street?’

  I was glad that he didn’t add that I might be casing the house with the intention of robbing it later. I held up the notebook and introduced myself. ‘I’m a writer for hire,’ I said. ‘I live over there.’ I waved my arm in the direction of my building. ‘And I was dashing down a description to use in something I’m working on.’

  His expression relaxed and it was hard to miss that he was extremely good-looking. His dark eyes had a sparkle and the black turtleneck made him look somehow poetic. I caught a glimpse of some bracelets on his wrist. When I saw that his black hair was pulled into a ponytail, I realized he was Maeve’s yoga partner, whom Caleb had seen.

  ‘So that makes you almost a neighbor,’ he said. ‘We get a lot of people looking at the houses, curious about the history, and then what happened next door …’ His voice trailed off and he studied my face to see if I knew.

  ‘I heard,’ I said, and both of our expressions turned somber.

  ‘What exactly are you writing? Maybe I can offer some insight.’ I wondered if it was truly an offer of help, or if he didn’t believe me and was trying to corner me. I pulled out a business card and walked up the porch and handed it up to him.

  ‘So you can see I’m legit,’ I said. He looked over the card and seemed satisfied.

  ‘There’s been a slew of people hanging around. Podcasters, some woman with a YouTube show and now newspeople with their satellite vans.’ He sounded a little weary. ‘You were going to say what you were writing.’

  I wasn’t about to bring up Caleb, so I threw myself in with the crowd interested in Maeve’s place and added that I’d been hired by her to write something.

  His dark eyes lit with interest. ‘So, you’re the one she hired.’

  Then he knew about the memoir. I wondered what else he knew – like maybe the ending she had dangled in front of me. If nothing else, he might tell me enough about Maeve’s yoga practice that I could write something about it. ‘I’m trying to put something together based on the notes she gave me. Would you be willing to answer a few questions?’ I asked.

  He glanced up and down the street and then back to me. ‘It’s kind of cold out here. I was just going to have a mug of hot cider.’ He stepped toward the front door and held out his arm in a welcoming gesture to complete the invitation.

  I realized it was going inside a stranger’s house next door to where a murder had recently happened, and I hesitated for a moment, but my gut told me he was OK. I went up the stairs and followed him inside.

  He was telling the truth about the cider. I smelled the cinnamon and apple scent as soon as I got inside. ‘I should introduce myself,’ he said with a friendly smile. ‘I’m Kent Goodman.’ He pointed toward the living room off to the side of the entrance hall and invited me to sit while he got the cider.

  There was a moment when I had a horrible thought that Kent was going to come back with the cider and an axe in hand. My gut had said he was OK, but just because he was good-looking with a great-sounding voice and a friendly manner didn’t really exclude that he could be an axe murderer. There was this phrase in mystery writing, too stupid to live, when characters did unbelievably stupid things. I didn’t want to be guilty of that in real life.

  The living room looked lived-in. Books and magazines lay on a coffee table in front of a couch, which had one of the cushions moved, as if someone had been reclining on it. As soon as he set down the drinks, he rushed to replace the cushion and offered me the seat, while he kept at a respectful distance, sitting in a wing chair to the side.

  ‘So, Kent, I gather you knew Maeve,’ I said, leaving it at that and not bringing up that I knew they’d done yoga together.

  ‘Since you live around here, you probably know that this two-block stretch is like a small town within the neighborhood. We do a lot of holiday celebrations together. We shut it off for Halloween, have carolers at Christmas and a carnival for the fourth of July. Most everybody takes part. Sometimes not the whole family, but at least one member.’

  ‘What about next door?’

  ‘Her husband did help make a scarecrow once, but it was mostly Maeve who got together with the neighbors. She and I were garden buddies. My wife travels a lot and never had much interest in the yard. My kids took after her and are off at school anyway.’ He urged me to try the cider while it was hot. ‘I can’t believe she’s gone.’

  I considered if I should tell him I was the one who found her, but that would push me to the center of the conversation, and I was more interested in hearing what he had to say. I didn’t know what story was circulating, whether it was murder or an accident, and I didn’t want to get in the middle of speculating. I wanted to use whatever time I had with him to get information.

  Because of my work, I’d become a good listener. Not just aware of the words, but the intonation, the space between the words, and if there was a subtext of meaning. Everything about the way Kent’s voice dropped into a pit of despair as he said, I can’t believe she’s gone, made me believe there was more story behind it.

  ‘She was so excited about the house when they moved in. She rushed over to introduce herself. Having a backyard was a big deal to her, and she was trying to figure what to do with theirs. I offered to show her ours and then to help her plan theirs, since she seemed overwhelmed.’

  ‘What about her husband?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, Michael Angel, the big-time artist.’ It was impossible to miss the contempt in his voice. ‘His only interest in a garden seemed to be painting it.’ My ponytailed host glanced over at me. ‘You must have been up in her workroom, and she probably had you do an art project,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Then you were up there, too?’

  ‘It was where she felt the most comfortable. The whole downstairs was arranged around Michael’s studio and the flow of people who came to see him and his art.’

  ‘You must have gotten to know her pretty well if you did a lot of gardening together,’ I said. ‘What did Maeve tell you about the memoir?’

  ‘Not too much, other than she said she wanted to show the artist behind the dog. It seemed to be particularly important to her, now that he was nominated for that art prize.’ A car rumbled down the street and he looked out the window. ‘She really adored him and made all kinds of excuses for him. Artist temperament and such.’ Kent looked down at the cider and I saw that his brow was furrowed, as if he’d thought of something upsetting. ‘I don’t know how well you know him, but he does the artistic thing very well. Moody and bursts of temper. And he was hardly discreet about other women.’

  ‘It sounds like you spent a lot of time with Maeve,’ I said.

  ‘Like I said, we were gardening buddies. My wife doesn’t know the difference between a marigold and peony. Michael’s only interest in anything green was painting those landscapes. We helped each other plan out our gardens and execute them. We joked that we’d always have petunias,’ he said, with a take on the line from Casablanca about always having Paris.

  He led me to the kitchen that looked out on the yard. Part of it was lawn, but the back section and along the sides had a selection of plants that seemed at the end of their season. ‘We both had vegetable gardens and flowers this year. I grew tomatoes and she planted lettuce and scallions. We shared our harvest,’ he said. ‘I helped fix some things around their place, too.’ He seemed to be remembering something. ‘I never did get to the basement door lock …’ He glanced at me. ‘But this isn’t helping you with what you are writing. Maybe you should tell me what kind of information you’re looking for.’

  ‘What you’re telling me is great,’ I said. I’d started taking some notes, thinking I’d write about her garden.

  ‘We talked a lot when we were digging up the backyards. She was the most giving person. Always thinking of others.’ Kent took a sip of the cider, and I had the feeling he was using it to cover his emotions. ‘Her husband abused her good nature and I think she had some plan in mind to take back control of her life.’

  ‘Do you know what she was going to do?’ I had a feeling it was connected to that mystery ending.

  ‘She was rather mysterious, and kept saying something about what goes around, comes around, and that she was probably deserving of what was happening. I was certain it had to do with Michael. I gather with the award and the documentary he had become insufferably full of himself.’ He held the mug in his hand. ‘She didn’t offer any details, but she definitely had something in mind.’

  It seemed like too much of a non sequitur for me to suddenly bring up the yoga they did together, but it did seem they were more than garden buddies. I sensed that he was in love with her.

  ‘It’s all like a bad dream,’ Kent said in a low tone. ‘I’m sure in the end it will turn out to be ruled an accident.’

  ‘I suppose the police talked to you,’ I said, and he nodded.

  ‘They asked me the expected questions. Did I know her, and did I see or hear anything?’ He shook his head sadly.

  ‘Well, did you see or hear anything?’ I asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t want you to think I was a nosy neighbor, but I saw Michael leave with a woman that day. Later I was out raking some leaves and Michael came back alone for a short time and left again.’ My host stood and said something about having to get to a philosophy class he had to teach and I got it, our interview was over. I had hoped to ask him if he knew anything about Caleb and his wife, but I couldn’t figure out how to do it without it seeming weird.

  By process of elimination, I now knew which house was Caleb’s, and I checked it out on my way back down the street. It was a dark brown with a covered front porch that left the house in deep shadows, which hardly looked inviting.

  My mind was on overload when I went home, and I forgot all about the plan for the soup. I wanted to write down some more notes, and did better writing them by hand than using the computer. The phone rang while I was scribbling fast and furiously on a yellow legal pad. I considered ignoring it, but when the caller ID said Suzzanna Angel, I went for it.

  I said hello, girding for whatever rudeness she was going to spew, but instead she greeted me in a friendly tone.

  ‘I understand that you are working on Maeve’s memoir,’ she said. ‘I can imagine it’s difficult without her to guide you. It’s too bad that I wasn’t at the gallery when you came with your friend. Since the story is really about my father, with Maeve mostly as a guide, I thought I might be able to help you.’

  Her friendly tone actually made me more uneasy than if she’d been nasty. ‘I’m managing pretty well on my own,’ I said. So she knew about our visit. I had hoped to keep it quiet, but she must have looked at the guest book.

  ‘I’m sure you are, but I know it all from the inside. Maeve had really been left behind. There were so many things lately – parties and receptions that she didn’t go to, the documentary that’s in the works. I could fill you in.’

  I didn’t like her, but she had a point. I was already envisioning creating more about the parties and the people who attended them. And I certainly wanted to know about the documentary. ‘I’d appreciate that,’ I said.

  ‘You could show me the draft you have and we could go from there,’ she said. Then I got it, she was trying to do what her father had tried to do. It was one thing to talk to her and write something up, but I certainly wasn’t going to let her look anything over and then start wanting to change it.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t work that way,’ I said. ‘I’d be happy to listen to whatever you had to say. We could do it on the phone or in person. Your choice.’

  She made an angry tsk sound. ‘Well, I don’t work that way,’ she said in a snippy tone. ‘I should be a collaborator on it. You’ll just get everything wrong. Maeve was trying to hang on to Michael, but he’d outgrown her. Serves her right after what she did to my mother’s marriage.’ Her voice had risen in anger.

  I didn’t know what to say, other than to tell her the truth. ‘As I said, I’d be happy to talk to you, but no promises about what I’d include.’

  All the friendliness was gone and the person who’d answered the door that first time returned. ‘My father said he’ll sue you if you say anything defamatory about him. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll let me help you.’

  I forced myself to be pleasant and repeated that I’d be happy to talk to her, but that was it. She hung up without a word. I guessed that was a no.

  It took me a minute to recover from the call. Had she just threatened me? I included it all in the notes with What are they afraid of? underlined twice.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The afternoon was fading and Tizzy would be coming soon, but even so I sat down at the computer ready to use the notes to work on the manuscript. I found what I’d written about Maeve’s house and wanted to add some personal touches to it, like how she felt about the place. I’d begun to take some liberties – actually, putting words in her mouth. I doubted there was anything Michael Angel would object to. The whole idea of them suing me was preposterous and sounded like an empty threat. But, just in case, I took some time to think about libel and slander since I always got them confused. I felt like Theo as I started doing research on defaming someone. Basically, libel was based on the written word and slander the spoken word. I would have to write something that damaged Michael’s reputation and was untrue. It was easier for a private person to win a suit than a public person. I was confident that Michael qualified as a public person. But I wasn’t going to say anything damaging anyway. When I’d finished with my reading, I started writing.

  The house on Harper meant different things to Michael and me. He could parade people through his studio. Their chance to see where the master did his painting. For me, it was about the yard and a chance to have a garden that would change with the seasons. And my own space on the third floor. I liked that it was private and for invited guests only. It was an art teacher’s dream. My guests and I would do a project while they visited. They were always hesitant, but I’d push them to try, and in the end, they were pleased with their creation.

  When I stopped, I looked through the stacks of papers that Maeve had given me. I was curious if there was anything about Kent. There was no mention of him by name or even referred to as a neighbor. But I did find the line, We’ll always have petunias. I wondered if she’d meant that as a prompt and that, when we got to it, she would have told me all about him and their gardening time and their relationship. I would never know now.

  I heard my phone chime, announcing the arrival of a text. I fought the urge to be like a Pavlovian dog and jump to look at the small screen, but I told myself it might be important, and the fact that I waited a little bit meant it was a conscious decision to check it, not an automatic one.

  It was from Caleb saying he needed to talk asap. I called him right back.

  ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do,’ he said after I’d barely managed to say hello.

  ‘About what?’ I asked, trying to get him to focus.

  ‘It’s my wife. I think she’s found somebody else.’ He sounded distraught and unfocused, and I figured the first thing to do was get to what exactly had happened. He had told me very little about the situation with her. I didn’t even know her name. He called her my Prime Number.

  ‘Are you divorced?’ I asked. There was a silence on his end of the phone and I wondered if I’d overstepped with the question, but then he finally answered.

  ‘Sort of,’ he said. It seemed like a vague answer from anyone, but even more so from a mathematician, since numbers weren’t ambiguous. I thought of another way to find out about the situation between them.

  ‘What about the house? Is it hers?’ I meant, as in, she got it in the divorce.

  ‘It’s a rental,’ he said in a noncommittal tone. The next question could have been who paid the rent, but I sensed it would go nowhere, so I moved on.

  ‘What makes you think that?’ I asked.

  ‘When I went to drop off the card I made yesterday, I saw a man inside.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean anything. It could have been a plumber,’ I said. Then I paused with a thought of a question of my own. ‘How did you even see she had company?’

  There was a grumbling sound from his end. ‘I thought it would be better to slip the card under the kitchen door. There’s a deck by the back door and I looked in the window.’

  I wondered if I should bring up how that might seem a little creepy and, if she saw him, make things worse between them, even though I was convinced he was harmless. ‘What were they doing?’ I asked, almost afraid of the answer.

  ‘Just standing there,’ he said. ‘And it wasn’t a plumber. Unless they started wearing bracelets.’

  ‘You really noticed some details,’ I said.

  ‘Only because he seemed to be handing her something,’ the mathematician said. I tried to find out some particulars about the bracelets, but he vaguely remembered seeing beads. Interesting that both Michael Angel and Kent wore bracelets made of beads.

  ‘It was probably just a neighbor who wanted to borrow something, or maybe a piece of mail got delivered to him by mistake and he brought it over. It sounds pretty innocent to me.’ I hoped I was convincing, though I had no idea if it was true.